


a kiss away from reality

by charonsdescent



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (in later chapters at least), Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballroom Dancing, Drunk Peter Parker, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Tension, Sick Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charonsdescent/pseuds/charonsdescent
Summary: ...or fourteen times Tony Stark and Peter Parker almost kiss, and the one time they finally do. To be updated weekly.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 354





	1. Almost Dying

Tony should have seen the blast coming.

But he didn’t because he had been busy shooting down the alien-bot freak that had decided to turn on Steve in the last second. Tony had just watched the alien-bot explode in a mess of scrap metal and guts and blood when FRIDAY reported there was a missile incoming. And then Tony had grabbed Steve, and they had both flown out just in time to avoid being turned into an explosion of metal and guts and blood themselves.

“Thanks,” Steve gasped as they settled back down on the ground.

“Yeah, you owe me one,” Tony replied, turning on Steve’s back and blasting down another alien-bot. _Really_ , if he hadn’t been mildly terrified by the fact that they were stupidly fast and stupidly strong, Tony would have been somewhat amused by the mix of robot parts and the green, fleshy alien. Space was _weird_.

“Are we really going to talk about—”

“Yeah,” Tony replied, firing another alien-bot. “We really are.” He heard Steve laugh behind him, joined by Peter’s laughter from over the coms. And Tony was about to look up, try to find Peter in the mess of laser fire and green-grey bodies, but then he registered a flash of red and orange light, and then smoke, and then Steve was suddenly shouting, and Tony was thrown backwards against the ground.

For a few seconds, Tony couldn’t hear anything above the roar of blood to his head or the buzz of the explosion.

“ _Critical damage to the left arm_ ,” FRIDAY said, and as if on cue, Tony felt a sharp pain stab at his arm.

“Got that,” Tony grunted, sitting up. “Later problem.” He stood up and surveyed the area. The blast had at least taken out the majority of the alien-bot things, much to his relief. There were still a few struggling under bits of exploded rock, but Tony didn’t think they were in any shape to get up any time soon.

And next to him, Steve was getting up too, wincing but otherwise in one piece. But Peter—

Tony’s head was still ringing as he swiveled around, his eyes searching for a familiar red and blue suit, for Peter’s head of brown curls to pop up from a cluster of ruins. “FRIDAY,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Scan for Peter.”

“ _I’m sorry, boss_ ,” FRIDAY replied. “ _Scanners have been taken out_.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Tony muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, and he, too, started looking around. Then, realization dawning on his face, he said, “Peter.”

“I know,” Tony replied. “He’s—” He eyed one of the still-wriggling bots pinned down under rock. He watched it wriggle some more before suddenly going limp, its eyes not seeing anymore. Ice flooded his veins. If Peter—

And then Tony noticed the large clump of rocks and rubble a few yards away from him, and then Tony saw the dark red staining the ground underneath.

_God, no, no, no…_

Tony stumbled forward, ignoring Steve’s call for him to wait. But Steve’s calls stopped too when he spotted the deep red, and then Tony was standing in front of the rubble, breathing hard, eyes hopelessly roving over a weak spot, some spot for him to lift or blast—

“Tony,” Steve said, his voice quiet. “He—”

“He’s under there,” Tony said, his voice hard. “We have to get him out.” Without waiting for a response, Tony ducked down, and, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm, he started to shift the debris. There was a loud groan as the top of the pile came shaking precariously down, and then Tony lifted his head in time to find Steve’s shield above his head before something could come crashing down on his head.

“Careful,” was all Steve said.

But there wasn’t any time to be careful. Not with Peter stuck down there—

Tony dug his grip under the debris and _pushed_. There was another loud groan, and then the bang and clatter of more metal and rocks slamming against Steve’s shield. The noise was so loud that Tony wasn’t sure if another missile had landed somewhere, but when no explosion came, Tony kept moving, kept pushing, kept clawing past the rubble to find Peter— _please, Peter_ —

Tony’s head was pounding and his arms were numb by the time he had dug through half of the debris, and then he heard a breath rattling through his coms: not Steve’s or his own, but—

Tony moved faster, faster, and then the debris fell way to a small pit: a small pit which had miraculously been deep enough to keep Peter from being completely smashed to smithereens by the debris.

“Found him,” Tony said, his voice cracking. He hated that it did, but then he was digging Peter out, Peter who was shaking just a little, Peter who had blood running past his shoulder but—

In a flash, both Tony and Peter’s helmets had retracted, and Tony was propping Peter up in his arms. Peter’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, Tony was worried that there had been more damage done, damage he couldn’t see, but then Peter’s eyes made contact with Tony’s.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice was slow, slurred. “You okay?”

Tony let out a somewhat strangled laugh. “I’m fine,” he said. “You?”

“Little muggy,” Peter mumbled. “Hurts.”

A lump rose in Tony’s throat. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “We’re going to get you fixed up, kid.”

“I know,” Peter replied. His voice was growing softer now, his eyes starting to close, but then, before Tony could even react, Peter lifted his hand up to Tony’s cheek. Tony froze, feeling Peter’s warm fingers skirt along his skin, down to his jaw, and then hover right at the corner of his lips. He looked down at Peter, unsure whether to move, whether this was a good time to move—

“’m okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter said. His hand moved past Tony’s lips, back down to his face. “We’re okay.”

\--

When Peter and Tony both got their injuries healed in the medevac, they didn’t say anything about what had happened.


	2. Drugged

“Careful,” Tony groaned against Peter’s side. “Room’s spinning.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter replied, slowing his step. “Are you okay? How’re you feeling?” He craned his neck towards Tony, whose face had noticeably become a shade paler than just a few minutes ago, whether that was from the strain of trying to keep up with Peter or from the drug itself, Peter wasn’t sure.

“Just peachy,” Tony replied, strained. “Can’t feel my legs, but just peachy.”

Peter winced. “Bruce said that he’ll have something ready in the lab,” he said, adjusting his grip on Tony’s side. He tried not to notice the muscles underneath or Tony’s warm hand brushing against his as they staggered down the hallway. “Really wish you were working on one of the lower floors, though.”

“Me too,” Tony said just as Peter punched the button to the elevator. Peter leaned back, waiting for the doors to open. He became aware of Tony’s breath hot on his neck, the bristles of Tony’s hair beard brushing up against his cheek as the lights of the elevator flickered.

Really, it had been sheer luck that Peter was able to catch Tony on time the moment the drug had been administered. Peter had been on the other side of the room, tinkering with his own suit, when he heard the hiss of a needle, and then Peter had whirled around to find Tony swaying on his feet.

“What did you do?” Peter had asked, and Tony had been casual at first, shrugging and saying something about caffeine, and then his knees had crumpled.

“Okay,” Peter huffed as the elevator doors opened in front of them. They headed inside—or, Peter headed inside, Tony stumbling beside him—and Peter punched the button for the lower lab, where Bruce would be waiting.

They lasted exactly fifteen seconds before Tony lurched with the elevator, nearly falling to the ground except Peter hauled him back. Peter would have been relieved by that, too, except he hauled Tony back a bit too quickly and perhaps a bit too aggressively, because they both slammed against the back wall of the elevator.

“Sorry,” Peter said automatically as Tony’s groans filled the space. “Didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know, I know,” Tony grunted. He shifted against Peter, his grip on Peter’s side tightening. Peter sucked in a breath of surprise, which, to his embarrassment, Tony heard. “Sorry,” Tony said, loosening his grip.

“You’re fine,” Peter said, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “You’re fine,” he repeated.

“It’s not,” Tony said, giving Peter a sidelong glance. A corner of his lips quirked upwards. “This is kind of a mess, isn’t it?”

Peter swallowed. With Tony still propped up against him, Tony was much closer than Peter was used to. Peter could make out more details of Tony’s face from this close: the lightest of freckles on his face, the faint wrinkles around is eyes and the corners of his lips—

His lips.

Still just bent in that ever so familiar smirk, the kind that Peter had memorized like the way back home. Still just a breath away from Peter’s own lips. Still—if Peter just leaned a little forward, they would be—

And then Tony’s smirk was slowly fading, and Peter forced himself to look at Tony’s eyes.

They were close.

Peter swallowed again, his face burning, burning, burning— _had Tony noticed him staring?_

But they were still so close.

Tony cleared his throat. “Parker? You good?”

Peter wondered if his face was as red as it felt. “Yeah,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. _Oh, God_. Bad mistake. He cleared his throat quickly, lifting his head as though that movement alone would clear the thoughts rushing through his head (and elsewhere). “Totally good.”

Somewhere, the elevator bell let out a cheerful _ding_ as they reached their floor.

But Peter and Tony remained still.

And then, and _then_ , Peter watched with a thrill as Tony’s dark eyes flicked down Peter’s face: _to his lips_ , and Peter suddenly became aware of Tony’s breath too, which would have been gross, but it wasn’t somehow, because they were _so close_ —

“There you guys are!”

Peter scrambled upwards as Bruce neared the elevator doors. He almost let go of Tony, too, which would have been horrific, but no, his grip on Tony remained, and Tony, too, had straightened considerably by the time Bruce came to the front of the elevator.

“What were you _thinking_?” Bruce asked, regarding Tony warily.

For a terrifying half-second, Peter wondered if Bruce had seen them—seen how close they were and how they had been looking at each other’s lips—but then Tony gave his friend a wry smile. “Decided to do some small testing,” he replied loftily. “I’m allowed to experiment, aren’t I?”

“Not on _yourself_ ,” Bruce said, exasperated. He gestured to Peter, who tried frantically to keep his features neutral. “Look, Peter had to drag you all the way down here.”

“I don’t mind,” Peter quickly said, and when Tony and Bruce both looked at him, Peter wished the floor would just swallow him up. “I mean,” he added, “I’m used to dragging Mr. Stark around.” _No, that’s even worse!_

“I _mean_ ,” Peter said, his face growing unbelievably warm, “Mr. Stark would do the same for me. He _has_ , actually.” He was scrambling now. “One time, I fell in a river, and Mr. Stark had to send one of his suits to get me out, and—” He stopped himself, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence any longer. “What I mean is,” he finished lamely, “it’s cool.”

“See?” Tony said, looking at Bruce. “Peter says it’s cool.” (Peter tried to ignore the tight squeeze in his chest when Tony smirked at him.)

Bruce only shook his head. “He only says that because he’s a nice kid,” he said, briefly flashing Peter a smile, which he returned weakly. “Now come on,” Bruce continued, gesturing to the back of the lab. “Let’s get that drug out of your system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	3. Drunk

Tony found Peter standing at the balcony, his arms dangling over the edge as he peered down at the city below. A chill hung in the night air, bringing in the promising the beginning of a cool autumn and an even colder winter. But that didn’t seem to bother Peter, who didn’t so much as shiver in his plain t-shirt.

But that probably had something to do with the alcohol.

Tony wasn’t sure how he missed it. Just that he had been talking to the others: Steve, Rhodey, and then they had both stopped talking because—well, when Tony turned around, Peter was swaying towards the balcony, waving sloppily away at Bruce, who was trying to get his attention. “Peter’s…” Bruce had started to say, but Tony only glanced around at some of the empty beer bottles before making a beeline for Peter. 

“Alright,” Tony said loudly now, settling next to Peter on the balcony. He kept a small distance away, just enough for their elbows to barely be brushing against each other. “Time to go back inside.” He set his hands on Peter’s shoulder, started to move him away from the railing, but Peter squirmed out of Tony’s grip.

“’m _fine_ ,” Peter said, his voice slurred and sticky with beer. He turned around to Tony, his back leaning against the railing. He dipped his head towards Tony, a slow smile stretched across his face. “See? Fine.”

Tony stiffened. Spider senses or not, he felt the slightest—no, not slightest, definitely more than slightest—trickle of fear as Peter leaned back, a wind catching his hair. The lazy smile on Peter’s face remained, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was literally leaning over the edge of a hundred-something-floor building, Tony would have thought he looked…

Tony shoved the thought out of his head. _Focused. Stay focused._

“Peter,” he said instead, keeping his voice level. “Playtime’s over.”

“But I’m _not_ ,” Peter said, a distant whine in his voice. “Playing. I’m not playing.” He relaxed against the railing, another wind whipping past, this time ruffling the sleeves, the body of his shirt. Tony tried not to notice how the shirt pressed flat against Peter’s abdomen, the rest of him.

“Right,” Tony said at last. “Then you can _not play_ indoors.” He gestured halfheartedly behind him. “Come on, kid. It’s cold out here.”

Peter frowned. “Not fair,” he said, but he pushed himself off the railing. For a moment, Tony relaxed, but then he was tensing because Peter was walking towards him, closer and closer until he was just a few breaths away from Tony’s face. Tony could smell the alcohol on Peter’s breath as Peter tilted his face up at him. “You’re not being _fair_.”

 _Focus_ , _stay focused_.

But it was difficult for Tony to keep his tone casual, his face neutral as he took in Peter’s shining eyes, his lips: bottom lip slightly pushed out, as though in challenge. Challenging _him_.

“Not fair,” Peter repeated, his voice quieter, hoarser. His eyes flitted around Tony’s face, lingering on his eyes, lips. Tony’s mouth went dry as Peter took another step forward, and they were that much closer. Peter lifted his eyes back up to Tony. 

Tony told himself to move. Take a step back. Multiple steps back. Because if he didn’t—

“Peter.” Tony hated himself for how quiet his voice was, how raw.

“Tony.”

Tony tried to ignore the small thrill that shot through him at the sound of his name— _his name_ —from Peter, tried to ignore the sudden urge to brush back Peter’s curls, take him right there against the balcony—

“Tony,” Peter repeated, his lips curling into a smile. And _such_ a smile, the kind that made Tony’s chest ache as Peter stood on the tips of his toes, his voice taking on an almost singsong quality as he whispered, “Tony, Tony, Tony.” He leaned forward—so much closer now, and then Peter’s hands were tugging at the lapels of his jacket. Lightly, not enough to get Tony to fall forward, but just enough for Tony to realize that if he _really_ didn’t move now, then they were both going to do something they were going to regret in the morning.

And yet, a small part of Tony wondered if he really _would_ regret it. Regret leaning forward, catching Peter’s open mouth.

“Peter,” Tony started again. He forced himself to meet Peter’s eyes. Forced himself to take a breath, lift his hands up around Peter’s. Forced himself to ignore how soft, warm Peter’s hands were as he lowered them from himself. Forced himself to ignore the look of hurt that flashed across Peter’s face.

Forced himself to let go of Peter’s hands, forced himself to take another breath.

“Come on,” Tony said at last. “Back inside.”

And he forced himself to step away, gesture back indoors.

Peter was still—too still, and then, as though registering what had just happened, Peter stumbled away, back into the rest of the building, back to the warm laughter of the people inside. Tony’s chest tightened as he watched Peter sway back inside. He kept watching until he saw Peter sink into the couch next to Wanda, who offered him a glass of water. He thought Peter would look at him (waited for Peter to look at him), but Peter’s head was turned away, the tips of his ears an embarrassing shade of pink as he downed the water.

And then Tony turned back out the balcony, stared down at the city below, and tried to steady his breathing.

Later, when the party was over and everyone had cleaned up and parted ways, Tony would wake up in his bed, trying hard not to think about Peter’s lips, his hands. But he would think about them anyway as his hand frantically chased the heat in his pants. He would think about Peter’s lips, his hands—what they would be doing, and what Tony would be doing with them—and when he came, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from whispering—groaning—Peter’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	4. Sick

Peter heard the coughing even before he walked into the workshop. He frowned, pausing by the glass doors as he made out Tony’s rounded shoulders, which were shuddering with each sharp cough. Then, exhausted by the clear strain, Tony slumped over against the workbench—just slightly, just enough for Peter to quickly walk into the workshop.

And obviously upon hearing the doors slide open, Tony whirled around, his hand already creeping up to cover another feeble cough. Peter almost stopped in his tracks then: Tony looked terrible. His skin was chalky pale except for the two bright spots in his cheeks, eyes a little too bright which contrasted sharply against the dark bags underneath. Still, to Peter’s mild exasperation, Tony gave Peter a familiar half-smile.

“Didn’t think you’d be early,” Tony said, leaning against the workbench. Peter figured the gesture was meant to be casual, but he noticed the slight tremor in Tony’s hands as he propped himself up.

“Traffic was light,” Peter replied. He looked Tony up and down. “You don’t look too good. Or sound too good.”

“This?” Tony asked, gesturing to himself. “Just a small thing. It’ll be fine by the end of the d—” The rest of his words were drowned out with a terrible, trembling cough that shook Tony’s whole body. Before he could think better of it, Peter reached for Tony to steady him.

Tony heaved, one hand pushing up to his chest, the other reaching up around Peter’s wrist. His hand was warm, uncomfortably warm. But Peter kept himself steady, reached for Tony’s back.

“You’re okay,” Peter said, rubbing circles into Tony’s back. “Tony?”

Tony lifted his head weakly. “Sorry,” he rasped.

“Don’t be,” Peter said. He flicked his eyes down to where Tony’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist. “You’re warm.” He tried to quell the rapid thudding of his heart as he shifted his other hand from Tony’s back to— _no, not his face_. Peter wasn’t sure if he could survive if he pressed his hand against Tony’s face.

Peter found the side of Tony’s neck instead, his thumb just barely brushing against the corner of his jaw. Just as Peter had figured, Tony was warm under his hand. Tony let out a soft sigh, his eyes briefly fluttering under the press of Peter’s palm.

“Hey,” Peter said, his hand automatically shifting upwards—just a little closer to Tony’s cheek, as though that movement alone could support him. _So much for not touching his face,_ Peter thought, hoping that his own face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Not now. Let’s get you back to your room.”

Tony blearily opened his eyes. At first, Peter thought he was going to argue, but to his surprise—and relief—Tony nodded, his cheek catching more of Peter’s hand. Peter willed himself to remain calm, casual as he slid his hand away from Tony’s face. “Come on,” Peter said, and letting himself only to take Tony’s arm, they made their way out of the workshop.

Tony’s body shook a little with just barely suppressed coughs, and his steps were slow and heavy, but they eventually got to Tony’s room. Peter closed the door behind themselves, set Tony down on the bed.

“Water? I’m going to get you some water,” Peter answered for himself. He left the room quickly, his hand still burning with the memory of Tony’s cheek at his fingertips. He filled a glass with cool water and returned to find Tony already stretched out in the bed, his eyes half-closed.

A weak cough left Tony’s lips, but not enough to drive him into another fit. Still, Peter set the glass of water at Tony’s bedside just within reach.

Peter had to get Tony’s fever down.

He returned a few heartbeats later with a makeshift cooling compress. Peter perched himself on the other end of the bed—at Tony’s other side. Tony, sensing Peter’s presence, shifted a little towards him, eyes slowly opening fully.

“Here,” Peter said quietly, setting the compress on Tony’s forehead. “That should help.”

“Playing nurse?”

“Someone has to,” Peter replied.

“Mm.” Tony closed his eyes, and then, with what Peter knew had to be a painful swallow, he said, “’m sorry. You should…” He gave a vague gesture of his hand. “Don’t want to get you sick.”

“I’ve got a strong immune system. Spider genes.”

“Please,” Tony muttered, eyes still closed. “That’s not how it works.”

Peter couldn’t help himself: he smiled.

And as though sensing that one small gesture, Tony opened his eyes. They were glazed with fever but focused—at least focused just long enough on Peter for him to be aware that he had smiled for maybe a second longer than he probably should have.

“Sorry,” Peter said hastily. “This isn’t funny.” He started to slide his hand away from the compress, but Tony caught his wrist. Their fingers tangled around each other helplessly, willingly, and Peter found himself staring down at how his hand fit perfectly in Tony’s. How natural their hands felt pressed against each other, even if Tony’s was warm with fever.

Peter dared his eyes upwards, to Tony’s lips, Tony’s eyes.

But Tony’s eyes were already half-closed, his voice little more than a mumble as he said, “Don’t ‘pologize. You always do that.”

“Can’t help it,” Peter managed to reply. His voice came out quieter than he expected. He looked down at their hands: at their fingers, still tangled together. Still fit together. Peter was afraid to breathe too loudly, too suddenly—and he didn’t know why except that his heart was racing, and he didn’t want to let go of Tony’s hand, but at the same time—

Tony shifted, his eyes opening just as the compress slid past his forehead. “Peter—”

“Yeah,” Peter said suddenly, and he let go of Tony’s hand. He leaned forward, picking up the compress. “You should…” His voice drifted as he pressed the compress back to Tony’s forehead. He met Tony’s eyes—still fever-glazed, still oddly bright, still staring back up at him.

“You should get some rest,” Peter heard himself say. He busied himself with the compress, making sure that his touches would remain feather light—he didn’t allow himself to rest his hand any longer on Tony’s face than he had to.

Because if he did—

Peter didn’t want to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	5. Second Choices

The dinner had mostly been going smoothly. There were some hiccups in the kitchen earlier—mostly just because they had been too distracted by the table conversation to remember that the stove was still on. Peter had been the one to catch it first, much to May’s relief. He had been laughing a little, completely relaxed—completely at ease as he got up from the table and disappeared into the kitchen to turn off the stove.

And May had looked at Tony and shaken her head, saying, “I swear I don’t usually leave the stove on. This is what happens when I get distracted.”

Happy had given May a goofy smile at that, and May had rolled her eyes. “Yes, Happy, you’re the distraction,” she said without missing a beat, and Tony had watched the exchange with some amusement—but he would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t relieved when Peter came back.

“Did I miss anything?” Peter asked, sitting down next to Tony. He brought with him a whiff of something clean. Peter had just showered, Tony could tell. His hair was still a little damp, some of his curls still clinging to the back of his neck. The back of his shirt was just faintly speckled with water too, just enough on his back to let Tony know that Peter hadn’t toweled himself off completely. A rush—Peter had been rushing to get ready for dinner. Tony briefly pictured Peter rushing around the apartment, hands combing through his hair, towel wrapped around his waist—

Focus. Tony had to focus.

They were having dinner. Casual dinner with May and Happy. Peter had invited Tony over—mostly because “otherwise I’ll just be an awkward third wheel, Mr. Stark, Tony _please_ —”

It had been Peter saying Tony’s name like _that_ that had been the final tipping point. Tony would have gone anyway, even without Peter saying his name, but _that_ had been an added bonus.

 _No, not bonus_ , Tony thought as he forced himself to look away from Peter, away from that damp lick of hair that Tony felt his hands itching to comb through. _Not a bonus. Don’t be gross._

Tony forced himself to think of other things. Like the fact that Peter had a boyfriend now. A boyfriend who Peter had brought over for a few days during winter break. A perfectly nice boyfriend in his senior year, while Peter was still suffering through the junior year rigor of college. A perfectly nice boyfriend who was age-appropriate and held Peter’s hand in public and didn’t at all seem fazed when Peter introduced him to Tony. (“Tony, this is Scott—uh, my boyfriend,” followed by a ridiculously sheepish, shy smile that sent a jolt of pain through Tony’s chest. Tony had smiled back though, clapped his hand on Scott’s shoulder, and then he had spent the rest of the evening trying not to notice how often Scott brushed his lips against Peter’s cheek, his neck.)

“Salt?”

Tony nearly jumped from the nudge against his hand. Peter. That was Peter nudging him, his fingers warm and light.

“Yeah,” Tony said quickly, taking the salt shaker from Peter. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

“Excited for the semester to end?” Happy asked from across the table. Tony was grateful that he spoke, that this conversation was still floating around so that he didn’t have to hyper-fixate on the small, teasing smile Peter gave Tony, as though to ask, _daydream much?_

“Yeah,” Peter said now, his face brightening. “I’m finished with all my requirements, so next year should be a piece of cake.” He speared a piece of asparagus before adding, “Still feels weird, though. Like, I can still remember freshman year. Vividly.”

“College goes by fast,” May said wistfully.

“Tell me about it,” Peter said, shaking his head.

May smiled. “When I was in college,” she mused, “my friends and I did the _stupidest_ things—especially in senior year. Most of us were skipping classes by then.” She cast Peter a sidelong glance. “Which, by the way, you’re allowed to do every once in a while—”

“You’re being a bad influence,” Peter said. He looked at Tony. “Do you hear this? She’s being a bad influence, right?”

“Oh, come on,” May said, leaning back in her chair. She glanced between Happy and Tony. “ _You_ guys have cut classes before, right?”

“Of course,” Happy said, as Tony said, “All the time.”

At Peter’s wounded look, Tony added, “But I went to more of my classes during senior year. Tried to. _Tried_ ,” he said, ignoring Happy’s rolled eyes.

“Unbelievable,” Peter said, shaking his head. “You guys are all terrible.”

“I said that I _tried!_ ” Tony protested as Happy and May started laughing. “C’mon, kid—that’s gotta count for something, right?”

Peter’s lips twitched into a smile. “I know,” he said, and leaning a little towards Tony, he added, “You’re less terrible.”

Tony’s heart skipped—actually skipped, like he was some lovesick teenager again (although then again, Tony wasn’t sure his heart even skipped when he was a teenager, come to think of it)—as Peter’s doe eyes met Tony’s. There was laughter dancing in his eyes, the kind of bright happiness that made Tony feel both light and heavy at the same time.

“Thanks,” he managed to say, turning back to dinner. “Glad that we’ve covered that.”

He could still feel Peter’s smile on him when there was the ring of a phone, and then there was shuffling from Peter’s side. “Hold on,” he said quickly, scooting away from the table. “Just gotta take this.”

“Is it Scott?” May asked in a sing-song voice.

Tony forced his face into a neutral expression as Peter mumbled something, and with an embarrassed smile at the table, Peter disappeared down the hall. Tony focused back on the dinner and looked up at May and Happy, who were exchanging knowing smiles.

“A year, right?” Happy asked, reaching for his water glass.

“Just about,” May replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the call’s about that.”

Tony almost choked on his own water. A _year_ —God, he hadn’t known it was _that_ long. His face heated as May and Happy’s eyes fixed on him, brows furrowed. Tony swallowed hard, and lifting a hand, managed to croak out, “Went down the wrong pipe.”

“The one time you actually drink water…” Happy said, shaking his head.

Tony only braced on a smile and was careful to take smaller sips.

\--

There was something wrong.

Tony knew it the second Peter sat down, his face flushed and the laughter gone from his eyes.

May and Happy noticed too—but Peter just flashed a brief smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he said, “I’m fine. Just some stuff.” And then he had quickly switched the topic over to baseball, which Tony _knew_ was a bad sign, because Peter didn’t care about baseball at all, but sensing the clear need to divert his attention from something, everyone indulged Peter in talking about what little they knew about the upcoming games.

Dinner ended soon after that, and then Tony and Peter were bussing empty plates back to the sink. Tony snuck a few glances at Peter, but each time, Peter would pointedly look away. The rest of the evening went something like that: the conversation taking on a forced lightness. Any attempt to dig into what actually happened over the phone call with Scott was diverted away, and as the night went on, Tony had the growing suspicion of what exactly the phone call had entailed.

But he didn’t allow himself to delve any further down that path. He would _not_ think about what that phone call must have been, because he knew that if he did, he would feel things that would make him too embarrassed to look Peter in the eye.

So he didn’t bother asking—didn’t ask at all, not even as Peter offered to walk Tony back to his car. Which earned him a few surprised—albeit gentle—looks from Happy and May. Tony’s heart squeezed at the little look that May gave him: _talk to Peter_.

Tony wasn’t sure if he could.

But he tried.

“How’re you holding up?” he asked at last, rounding a street corner. The words hung heavy between them, and Tony wondered if he really shouldn’t have said anything at all, but Peter’s shoulders slumped forward anyways.

“Do you know?” he asked quietly.

Tony looked at Peter.

Peter looked at Tony.

“Yeah,” Tony said at last. When Peter’s eyes slid away, Tony said, “Scott’s an asshole.”

Peter let out a short huff. “You liked Scott.”

 _No_ , Tony thought. _I didn’t._

“I only liked him because you liked him,” Tony replied. He stopped in front of his car, and Peter came to a stop beside him. Tony turned to face Peter completely, noting the way a street light’s golden glow fell over Peter completely—washed him in a warm light that should not have been allowed. “Listen,” Tony said. “Anyone who breaks up with you is an idiot.”

A corner of Peter’s lips twitched. “You’re only saying that.”

“So?” Tony asked. “It’s true.” He tilted his head down to Peter’s pocket, where his phone must be. “Scott’s an idiot.”

“He’s about to graduate with honors.”

“And you’re fucking Spider-Man. Who’s at a real loss here?”

Peter rolled his eyes, but Tony detected the distant shine in them, and Tony’s chest tightened. When Peter bowed his head, Tony pushed out a sigh. “Kid,” he started, and then Peter rested his forehead against Tony’s shoulder.

Tony froze. He hadn’t expected that.

“I dunno,” Peter said, his voice slightly muffled. “I know it’s stupid, but I really…” His voice was small. “I really liked him.”

Tony’s throat closed. “He doesn’t deserve that,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Peter mumbled. “But I just…” Tony felt, more than heard, Peter’s short breath. “I guess I just wanted it to work.” He lifted his head slowly, his eyes downcast as he said, “Scott figured that since he’s graduating, it’d be best to just…cut things off.” He lifted a shoulder. “He’s found someone else, too. A minor fact.” There was definite bitterness in his voice now. “He’s a senior too, apparently.” Peter rubbed a hand over his eyes and let out a short laugh. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be a second choice.”

He dropped his hand from his face and looked at Tony, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Better luck next time, right?”

Tony took a few seconds before finding his voice to reply. “You shouldn’t ever be anyone’s second choice,” he said. Tony hated himself then, hated himself for wanting to tilt Peter’s chin his way, hated himself for wanting to dip his forehead against his, meet Peter’s lips into reassuring him that Peter wouldn’t ever be Tony’s second choice—

“Yeah?” Peter looked up at Tony, his face softening. There was a halo of light around his head from the angle of the street lamp.

“Dead serious,” Tony replied. He cleared his throat, ripped his eyes away. “Just…next time, make sure you find someone who knows that too.”

He felt Peter’s eyes boring into him as he said softly, “Yeah. I’ll make sure next time.” And then Peter took a step closer, and for a second, Tony forgot how to breathe—but then Peter rested his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah, kid,” Tony said, wondering if his voice was as low and as hoarse as it felt. “No problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	6. Distracted

Peter had only gone to the beach a handful of times in his life. Once, back when he was a little kid—back when both his parents were alive. He couldn’t really remember much from that trip, just walking between what he guessed had to be his parents. He remembered getting sand stuck in between his toes, and he remembered a warm hand brushing back his hair, and he remembered falling asleep on the car ride home. He had gone to the beach with May a few years later after that, right after Ben’s funeral. They had walked along the surf, and then May and Peter had picked up shells and pointed out hermit crabs.

But Peter hadn’t ever gone to the beach with Tony.

It had been a surprise. Peter had walked back to his apartment, glad that his last final was over with. Glad that his junior year was over with, period. He would have to pack a few days later—for now, he had opted to stay behind on campus for just a few more days, just to say goodbye to his graduating friends.

But that wouldn’t be for some time, and Peter had been wondering how to spend his last few days on campus when he had found Tony standing in front of his door.

Peter had stopped dead in his tracks, his heart doing that stupid thing where it skipped a few beats, and he had to take a few seconds to process the situation before breathing— _breathing_ —Tony’s name, like some lovesick teen. Which he basically still was. He was going to turn twenty-one in a few months.

“Congratulations,” Tony only said, pushing himself off Peter’s door. He was wearing a band tee, a pair of worn jeans. Casual, low-key, and Peter still had to tell himself not to stare, especially at the way the tee hugged Tony’s biceps. “You’re done with your junior year.”

“Not yet,” Peter said, fumbling for his keys. “I still need to get my grades back. I could have failed my finals.”

“You didn’t fail,” Tony replied, shifting away for Peter to shove the key in the lock.

Peter managed a small laugh before pushing open the door. His roommates weren’t in, which Peter had the feeling Tony must have known before showing up here. “So,” Peter said, risking a backwards glance at Tony, “what’re you doing here?”

“Why do you think?” Tony asked, following Peter into the apartment. “I go where the celebrations go.”

Peter settled his backpack against the floor. “Celebrations?”

“How do you feel about the beach?”

And so Peter had just stared at Tony, and then Tony had smiled and jerked his head out the door. “Come on,” he said, and an hour later, Peter had found himself standing on the sandy beaches of Cape Cod, feeling the waves curl up to his toes.

The beach had been completely empty—still a little too chilly for beach goers, Tony had claimed, but Peter didn’t believe that for one second, not at the sly smile Tony had given him. But Peter had smiled back, feeling heat rush up his face.

Peter took a few steps into the cool water, ignoring the kelp that tangled around his feet. He pushed past the murky brown kelp until he hit smooth sand, the water now up to his shins. He grinned and turned around to Tony, who stayed at the edge of the water.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Peter asked.

“And get wet? I think I’m good,” Tony replied.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You brought me to a _beach_ ,” he said. “What did you think we’d do?”

“Well,” Tony said, settling down on the sand, “ _you_ can splash around all you want.” He stretched across the sand, pillowing his head over crossed arms. Peter ignored the way Tony’s tee crept up a little, exposing a line of skin. “I’ll be fine right here.” He sighed loudly, and Peter rolled his eyes, turning back around to the water.

He saw a hermit crab scuttling around the sand. Peter grinned, ducking down to scoop the crab out of the water. The crab, unbothered by the sudden change in environment, only crept around Peter’s hand. Peter turned back around to where Tony was still stretched across the sand, and then Peter had an idea.

Swallowing back a smile, Peter splashed back to shore. He cupped his other hand over the crab, and kicking through the kelp, he found himself back on the sand. Peter ignored how the wet sand clung to his ankles, his toes as he made himself over to Tony.

“What is it?” Tony mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“I made a friend,” Peter said, settling down on the sand next to Tony.

Tony cracked open his eyes. “What?”

And then Peter opened his hands, and Tony startled up. “ _Shit_ — _Parker_ —”

Peter only laughed as he turned around, setting the hermit crab back down on the sand. He waited until the crab had scuttled away before turning back around to Tony, who was shaking his head. “You thought that was funny?” Tony only asked, sitting up fully.

Peter lifted his shoulders. “Kind of was.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re a brat,” he said, but not meanly. Tony’s voice was soft, affectionate in the way that it only ever was when they were sharing quiet moments. A thrill shot through Peter as Tony cast him a sidelong smile. “You know that?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He became aware of the wet sand still digging into the spaces between his toes. And the sand dusting the back of Tony’s arms, his back. Peter resisted the urge to reach over, bat the sand away. Feel Tony underneath him. Or maybe just press Tony back into the sand, roll over on top of him, whisper that fine, Peter was a brat, but he was _Tony’s_ brat—

Peter swallowed. “Yeah,” he repeated. He flashed a smile, standing up. “But you love it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Tony huffed, but he was smiling too. He stood up, and brushing the sand off him, he asked, “So was that your signal for me to join you? Was that it?”

“Maybe,” Peter replied, backing away into the water. His feet hit kelp, and he stopped, letting it tangle around his ankles. He looked at Tony. “Don’t you want to get me back?”

“Don’t tempt me, kid,” Tony said, but he was already walking forward, kicking off his shoes. And when Tony came closer to the shore, Peter took a few steps back, just so that he was out of the line of kelp. He laughed a little as Tony grimaced through the kelp. And as Tony moved past the kelp, Peter took a few more steps back, just barely dancing out of Tony’s reach.

“I see how it is,” Tony said, smirking. And then he dipped his hands into the water and sent a spray of ocean at Peter.

Peter threw up his hands to block himself, but then he heard the rush of water as Tony hurried for him—

Peter opened his eyes in time to find Tony just a few breaths away from him, hands ready to give another splash—

And Peter splashed back, this time aiming directly for Tony’s face.

“Hey!”

“Payback!”

“You started it!”

“Oh, really mature,” Peter crowed as Tony sent up another wave of water Peter’s way. He stumbled back a few steps, still laughing as Tony waded his way towards him. Tony’s hair was already glittering with beads of water, his shirt and jeans drenched, but he didn’t seem to care, not as he reached out to grab Peter back.

Peter only danced back, still laughing, feeling the water come up to his thighs.

“Get back here,” Tony said, splashing at Peter again, and Peter splashed back, this time purposely missing Tony by a few inches. “Where are you aiming?”

“Nowhere,” Peter replied.

“You’re trying to take it easy on me?”

“Maybe.”

“Brat.”

Peter grinned, and he was about to send up another splash when his foot slipped over a patch of too-smooth sand—or maybe it was a stone, but then Peter was tumbling backwards, the water splashing around him as he fell back. Peter heard laughter, and then he heard some more splashing—this time the splash of someone coming closer, and then Peter re-emerged from the water to find himself face-to-face with Tony.

“Slipped,” Peter said sheepishly.

“And here I was, thinking people with super powers didn’t slip,” Tony said, tugging Peter up from the water.

“Only when I’m distracted,” Peter replied, lifting his eyes to Tony.

Tony blinked, and Peter suddenly became aware of Tony’s hand wrapped around his forearm. A wave of water passed through them, causing Peter to sway a little towards Tony. A breeze picked up, pushing back Tony’s damp hair.

“Distracted, huh?” Tony asked at last.

Peter could taste the salt of the ocean on his lips, and he briefly wondered if Tony’s lips would be salty too, if he’d taste salt mingling with whatever Tony would taste like.

Peter blinked. “Your fault,” he only said, and he splashed water up Tony’s face again.

But Tony ducked out of the way, dragging both himself and Peter back down into the water. They rose out of the water a second later, laughing and spitting out salt water.

“That wasn’t fair,” Tony said, swiping the hair out of his eyes.

“Told you it was payback,” Peter only replied, and he managed another smile, even though his heart was beating too fast. Tony’s hand was still wrapped around his forearm, and even in the cold water, Peter could feel the warmth of Tony’s skin pressed against his.

And then Tony’s hand was slipping away, his head turning back towards the shore. “Come on,” he said at last. “I’m racing you to the surface.”

“Does that mean I’m the mature one now?” Peter asked as Tony started splashing his way back to the shore.

“You wish,” Tony replied over his shoulder. “Come on, kid—and don’t even think about picking up any more crabs.”

Peter only smiled. But even as Tony waded through the water, Peter lingered a little behind. He rubbed a hand over his forearm, still feeling Tony’s fingerprints there. And then, shaking his head, he slipped his own hands away and waded after Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	7. Fighting

_This_ close. They had been _this_ close to being separated again, _this_ close to Peter getting blown two hundred feet down a building—even _after_ Tony had _specifically_ told Peter to get everyone and himself out first.

Only of course Peter had stayed.

He had stayed, even as Tony shouted for him to _go_ , get _out of here_ —

“Not without you!” Peter had shouted back. And before Tony could argue any further, Peter had rushed forward, asking what they had to do—what _they_ had to do—to minimize the casualties.

Tony wasn’t sure what happened after that. Just that they had scrambled together for some solution, but even that solution had been a roll of the dice. Tony just remembered Peter suddenly shoving him away, shoving him through the window, and Tony had at first just fallen through the window, numb to the fact that Peter was still in the building—

And then he had seen the flames start dancing a second before the glass windows blew open. He had swept into the windows, and ignoring FRIDAY’s warnings that he might not be able to get Peter and himself out in time, he had done it. Tony had done it just fine: grabbed Peter and blasted out of there before the flames could take them both.

“You could have been _killed_ ,” Tony seethed now as Peter rubbed his hair dry with a towel. Tony had told Peter to shower first, clean off the smell of gas and flames and musty rubble. Tony had taken a shower himself, one in which Tony had spent the first few minutes just staring at the tiled wall, trying to control the trembling in his hands because _this_ close. Peter had been _this_ close to dying.

“I’m fine,” Peter said now, swinging the towel around his neck. He spread out his arms. “See? Not a scratch.”

Tony swallowed back a growl. “That’s not the point,” he said. “You _pushed_ me out of there. Did you have _any_ idea what could have happened if I didn’t get to—”

“But it’s okay,” Peter said sharply, snapping the towel away from his neck. It dangled in his hands as he lifted his chin at Tony. “See? We’re both okay right now.”

“If you seriously expect _this_ to be _okay_ ,” Tony started, and then he stopped. Pushed his hands up to his face, took a deep breath, and when he re-opened his eyes, Peter was already turning away. Heading back down the hallway, probably to his room in the Compound.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tony called after him, dropping his hands to his sides.

Peter stopped in his tracks and tipped his head back with a sigh. That slight movement infuriated Tony—the carelessness of it all made Tony want to grab Peter by the shoulders and drag him back, shake him until he could _feel_ the panic that had flooded Tony’s veins when he had thought that he might be too late.

Peter slowly turned to him now, towel still dangling from his hand. “Just gonna toss this out,” he said. “Am I allowed to do _that_?”

“This is _not_ about what you’re allowed and not allowed to do,” Tony hissed, walking towards Peter. He closed the gap between themselves in two, three strides, and then Tony was looking down at Peter—or not really looking down at him, from this close. Peter had grown taller, and Tony didn’t have to dip his face down quite as much as he used to when he needed to talk to him.

From here, Tony could still smell the smoke and flames that clung to Peter’s skin, his hair.

“And even if it _is_ ,” Tony said, keeping his eyes on Peter’s, “you are _not_ allowed to pull stunts like _that_ —”

“Stunts?” Peter cut off. “I was trying to save your life.”

“I didn’t need you to do that!” Tony snapped. “Not like that! _Never_ like that!” He was aware that he was shouting now, aware of the blood roaring in his ears as the words rang between them. Peter only stared up at Tony, his eyes narrowed and jaw set.

“You would have done the same for me,” Peter said at last. “You _were_ going to do the same for me, remember?”

“That’s different,” Tony said.

“Really,” Peter deadpanned. “Because you were just as ready to die—I _know_ you were—when you told me to go. So why is it okay for _you_ to call the shots on your own life, but not okay for me to do the same with mine?”

“Because—” Tony started angrily, and then he stopped as a thousand different thoughts and a thousand different images and a thousand different reasons rushed through his head. Because if Peter had been the one to die, Tony would have to be the one to find Peter’s mangled body, and Tony would have to be the one to tell May that her only nephew had died trying to save Tony’s already half-spent life. Because if Peter had been the one to die, Tony would have to be the one living in a world without Peter Parker in it.

Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to live in that kind of world.

And he wasn’t sure if the rest of the world would be able to bear it, either.

“Well?” Peter demanded now. “ _Why_?”

Because if Peter had been the one to die, a part of Tony—the part that mattered—would have probably died with him.

“Because you’re young,” Tony said. “You’ve got a whole life ahead of you.”

“And what makes you think I would want to live my whole life without—” Peter stopped suddenly, something flickering just briefly over his face.

Tony didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe as Peter’s eyes searched Tony’s face, those familiar eyes that Tony had seen filled with every kind of emotion under the sun. And the way Peter looked at Tony now—he knew that look. Had tried not to notice that look, but right now—

And then Peter was looking away, taking a step back, and Tony wanted to grab him back, tell him to _stay_ , finish whatever it was he was about to say. But Tony kept his hands at his sides.

“Just forget it,” Peter muttered, turning around. “Forget I said anything.”

And then Peter was walking away, head bowed and hand still twisting around the towel.

Tony watched him walk away. Felt something wind up inside of him tighter and tighter with each step Peter took away from him. He wanted to reach forward, grab Peter by the wrist. Drag him in, make sure that Peter was still _there_ , still breathing and living and not about to let go. That was what he really wanted.

But Tony didn’t allow himself that.

He turned around and walked away in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	8. Tired

“Alright, you’re done.”

Peter yanked his fingers back to avoid getting them closed on by his laptop. Not that Tony would actually crush his fingers with his laptop, anyways—and not like it would hurt even if he did, but still, the instinct to pull away kicked in, and then Peter was left blinking at Tony’s scowling face.

“Why’d you do that?” Peter asked, hating the whine in his voice.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Peter tried to think. The last time he had checked the little timestamp on his laptop, it had been nearing two…

“Uh…” Peter rubbed his hands over his eyes and winced. He only became aware of that dull throb in his skull now, the kind that only occurred after hours on top of hours of staring at a screen. Which Peter had been doing, he knew. He hadn’t really moved from his laptop since…he didn’t even remember, Peter realized with some mild alarm. Just some mild alarm. He was pretty sure he was supposed to be alarmed at that, but everything was a bit hazy. Foggy. Muggy? Muggy might be the better word.

“It’s five,” Tony said flatly. “It’s five in the morning, Peter.”

Peter dropped his hands from his face. “Why’re you up?” he asked. Right. That was a question to ask. _Argumentation_. MJ would probably be proud. 

“ _I’m_ up because I can hear you smashing your keyboard through the walls,” Tony replied, dragging the laptop away from Peter’s reach.

“Your walls are soundproof,” Peter replied, leaning across the table. Or attempting to lean across the table. His arms were limp as he tried to pull himself forward. Probably not a good sign either, but he needed to finish this stupid assignment.

Tony scooted away, tucking Peter’s laptop under his arm. “That’s beside the point. You need to sleep.”

Peter groaned, rubbing his hands over his face again. “I just need to get one more thing done,” he said. “And then I’ll go to sleep. I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony sounded unimpressed. “And then you’ll tell yourself that you need to finish just _one more_ thing after that, and then next thing you know, it’ll be noon, and you’ll be seeing quadruple. Trust me, kid,” he added, coming around the table, “you’re going to want to sleep.”

Tony came to a stop next to Peter’s chair, bumping Peter’s foot with his own. “Come on. Up.”

Peter dropped his hands to his lap and looked up at Tony. Or tried to. His eyes burned. And his head hurt. But a part of Peter wanted to snatch his laptop back, re-open it, get back to work—but when Tony finally came into focus in front of him, Peter realized that that probably wasn’t going to happen.

“Okay,” Peter said at last, pushing his chair back. “ _Okay_.”

He stood up. Or tried to stand up, only to fall right back into his chair.

Tony’s arm shot out, and Peter felt a strong, warm hand wrap around his arm. “Careful,” Tony said.

“I’m being careful,” Peter mumbled. “Totally careful.” Still, he was relieved to find Tony beside him, hand still wrapped around his arm to keep him from stumbling. Peter briefly considered falling on _purpose_ , and wondered what Tony would do then.

“You good?”

Peter blinked, and he found Tony’s face. His brows were furrowed ever so slightly, that dry sarcasm on his face now replaced by genuine concern. And mild exasperation.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Super.”

“ _Super_ , he says,” Tony only muttered before adjusting his grip on Peter. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

“’m not sleepyhead,” Peter grumbled, following Tony out of the room. He tried to look up at Tony, found instead that _that_ was a bad idea. His head hurt, and he let his head drop against Tony’s shoulder instead. Tony’s shoulder was nice and warm. And Peter could smell Tony, too. Something vaguely woodsy. 

“Right,” Tony said, and Peter thought he heard a laugh. Or felt a laugh. A small vibration, one that tickled Peter’s cheek.

They wound down the hallway, and the shift in the air—cooler, dryer, told Peter that they were in his room at the Compound. He could adjust the temperature and the humidity in his room, which was _super_ cool, and definitley something that his apartment in Cambridge could do. Or his room at May’s place. Or any place, Peter was pretty sure. His room at the Compound was the only place he could have all that crazy stuff Tony set for him—which was _nice_. Tony was nice. Everything about Tony was nice. Like his warm hand and warm shoulder and woodsy smell.

 _Okay_ , Peter had enough consciousness to think. _So this is what staying up too long feels like_. Good to know.

“Here we go,” Tony grunted, and then Peter was being guided down to the bed. Tony set Peter’s laptop on the desk and pushed it to the farthest corner away before turning back around to him. “Can I trust you enough to not use that thing as soon as I walk out?”

“’m not a _kid_ ,” Peter managed to say, frowning up at Tony. The lighting here was better—dimmer, so Peter’s eyes didn’t hurt as much to look at him. “By the way.” He tried to stand up, but standing up was difficult. He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay?”

Tony smiled. It was a nice smile. “Okay,” he said, reaching forward to poke Peter’s forehead back. “Now go to sleep.”

Peter let himself fall back against the mattress—or started to, but then, at the last second, he managed to curl his fingers around the hem of Tony’s shirt. He meant to just lightly tug Tony forward, but then—

Tony landed in the bed next to Peter with a quiet huff of surprise.

“ _Peter_ —” Tony’s voice was muffled from the blanket, and then he lifted his head, turning just a little so that Peter and he were face-to-face. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” Peter said. “Wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Tony let out another huff of a laugh. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at Peter. There was a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes were smiling too, Peter thought. Warm and smiling under the dim lighting of his bedroom.

Warm—everything was warm. Peter could feel Tony’s body warmth from just a few breaths away, and he had the feeling if he rolled over just once, he would knock right into Tony’s chest.

He didn’t.

He kept staring up at Tony.

And then Tony set a hand on Peter’s head, his thumb just barely brushing past Peter’s curls. A gentle brush, just a slight movement across Peter’s forehead.

Peter wondered if Tony could feel the heat that rushed up his face.

“Tony?” Peter barely made his voice get above a whisper. Above a breath.

He wished he hadn’t spoken.

Because then Tony blinked.

“Sorry,” Tony said, dropping his hand, and it took everything in Peter to swallow back the whine threatening to crawl out of his throat. He sat up, the warmth leaving with him. “Get some sleep, Peter.” He pushed himself off the bed and, throwing Peter another look over his shoulder, he added, “I mean it. Okay?”

Peter nodded, the disappointment of…whatever _that_ was muting him.

“Okay.” Tony cleared his throat. “Get some sleep,” he repeated, and then he was walking out of the room, and then he was gone.

Peter stared up at the ceiling.

He was wide awake now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> also, I'm on [tumblr (charonsdescent) ](https://charonsdescent.tumblr.com/), if you wanna say hi!


	9. Dance Lessons

“I don’t get it,” Tony said, watching Peter sway across the empty training room. “Why does he need to be the one to go in this time?”

“We’ve already discussed this,” Natasha replied, bored. “He’s the one with the secret identity. You and I can’t exactly go waltzing into the party—we’re both too high-profile.”

“I _know_ ,” Tony muttered as Peter came to an abrupt stop with the dancing instructor. One of Natasha’s friends, apparently, who didn’t so much as blink when she walked into the Compound for the first time. Peter was talking to her right now, saying something Tony couldn’t make out. But he was smiling—albeit a little sheepishly, but a smile nonetheless. He was relaxed, Tony thought. Extremely relaxed, considering they were about to go into a high-stakes operation in a few days.

And Peter was supposed to be the one going undercover. Tony wasn’t sure how he felt about that, even though both Natasha and Peter had pointed out that Peter was probably the least likely to get sniffed out. “With that face?” Natasha had said, gesturing to Peter’s perfectly innocent smile. “No one will see him coming.”

But that hadn’t meant that they were going to let Peter off easy—hence the dancing lessons.

A moment later, Natasha’s friend was walking over to them, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Break,” she said only to Natasha. “Make sure your friend keeps practicing while I’m gone.”

“Heard that, Peter?” Natasha called.

Peter only waved an absentminded hand.

“Take care of him for a few minutes, will you?” Natasha said, glancing over at Tony. She jerked her head after her friend, who was already walking out of the training room. “Would hate to have our only instructor lost in this place.” And then she was gone, shooting both Tony and Peter a quick smile before following her friend out.

Tony turned around to Peter, who was still standing at the center of the training room. Peter shrugged. Despite the fact that he had been dancing around with Natasha’s friend for over an hour, he didn’t look the slightest bit tired. He brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, asking, “What now?”

 _What now,_ Tony thought. If only he knew.

 _Take care of him_ , Natasha had said. If only _she_ knew—

“Okay,” Tony said at last, walking across the training floor. “I promise I won’t step on your toes if you don’t step on mine.” He stopped in front of Peter.

Peter smiled. “I promise I won’t step on your toes,” he said.

“Great,” Tony replied.

And before he could lose his nerve, he held up his hands. He tried not to think of how naturally and quickly Peter’s hands fit into his—their fingers instinctively twined around each other. Peter’s hands were warm and dry in Tony’s.

“Right,” Tony said, taking Peter’s other hand and guiding it to his own waist. “Assuming here that you’re going to be leading the dance. Look the nice lady in the eyes, there you go—” Tony found Peter’s dark eyes shining up into his. “A natural,” Tony said, keeping his voice light. “Had practice with this, Pete?”

“Just a little,” Peter replied almost shyly. “School dances. Formals.” And then, stepping forward—they were starting now, Tony realized—Peter added, “I did a little bit of dancing as a hobby, though.”

“ _Really_ ,” Tony said, stepping back. He imagined Peter—shorter, younger, with curlier hair—dressed formally and leading a giggling girl in a gymnasium. “Got any pictures?”

“No,” Peter replied too quickly.

“So I should ask May?”

“Tony, _no_ —”

“Relax,” Tony said, trying (and failing) to smother his own smile. “I won’t ask.” They moved farther across the empty training space, their light steps just barely sounding through the room. Tony felt Peter’s hand shift a little against his waist, and the gesture was so light, so polite and shy, so _Peter_ that Tony didn’t know how to process it. For a while, they moved in silence, only the occasional breath or awkward laugh being the sounds in the room.

That was a dance in itself—Peter would lift his eyes briefly to Tony’s, and then they would both duck their heads away, fixating either on a light or their shoes or the doors, as though Natasha and her friend might come in any moment. Tony found himself staring at Peter’s forehead, right where his curls crested over in a hazel wave. It had grown a little longer over the last few months, and Tony resisted the urge to take his hand away and push it back.

“You’re…really good at this,” Peter said at last.

Tony blinked down at Peter and recovered long enough to remember to smile. “Surprised, Parker?” he asked.

“Not really,” Peter replied, loosening his grip and sending Tony outward. He laughed—a light, sheepish laugh as Tony came back around to him. “Is that weird? Was that weird?”

“You’re doing fine,” Tony assured him, squeezing Peter’s hand. He hadn’t meant to. He probably shouldn’t have. “Your dance partner is going to be very lucky.”

Peter smiled and ducked his head down.

“So,” Peter said after a little while, “did _you_ dance before?”

“I’ve had my fair share of lessons,” Tony replied. He realized they were straying back to the center of the training room, back under the main light fixture.

“Do you have any photos of that?” Peter asked.

“None that you’ll find.”

“That’s not fair,” Peter said, lifting his face up to Tony. His eyes seemed brighter, but that might have just been from the reflection of the light above.

“Well, you have all the proof that I can dance, don’t you?” Tony asked.

“I _guess_.”

Tony only shook his head. “Never satisfied.”

“Never,” Peter replied. 

Tony tried to smirk, but he couldn’t feel it. He instead said, “You know, if you _really_ want to impress someone, you can try…” He pushed Peter out gently, and he let Peter spin once in a circle, but as he came back—

“Here,” Tony said, and he took Peter’s other hand, guided it to the front. He stepped forward, caught Peter’s retreating back. Peter’s head bumped against Tony’s shoulder, and Tony heard a sharp breath that could have come from either of them.

“See?” Tony said, too aware that his fingers were still tangled in Peter’s. That Peter was the one resting against Tony’s shoulder, that Peter was the one pressed up against Tony. “You’re a natural. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, his voice quiet. A whisper, but not quite. He tilted his head towards Tony, his curls just barely brushing against Tony’s cheek. “For showing me.”

Tony tried to think of something lighthearted to say, but he couldn’t. He nodded instead, his cheek brushing more against Peter’s curls.

Peter swallowed—Tony could see the swallow, see his throat bobbing. He felt Peter shift against him, felt that careful energy thrumming through him, through them _both_ as Peter didn’t lean back, but leaned _forward_ , his eyes bright and all-consuming, and Tony felt himself lean in, just by a breath, just close enough to feel the heat of Peter’s skin come dangerously close—

The creak of the door opening sent Tony and Peter springing apart, and Natasha and her friend came strolling into the training room a moment later.

“Well, did you practice?” Natasha’s friend asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said quickly. “I…practiced. A little.”

“Wonderful,” Natasha’s friend said crisply. “Now, again.”

Peter nodded, not making eye contact with Tony as he slid into position with the actual dance instructor.

And Tony slipped to the side of the training room.

Natasha looked at him once, and then, turning to the center of the training room, she asked, “How did your practice with Peter go?”

“Fine,” Tony said. “It went fine.”

Natasha nodded, looking satisfied. And then, after a moment, she clapped her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Peter certainly seems to think so, too,” she said, and she dropped her hand from Tony.

“What—”

“You smell like him,” was all Natasha said before walking to the center of the training room. “C’mon, Peter, chin up. Don’t look at her shoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this image of regency-era Tony and Peter dancing together in an empty ballroom, and I wrote this instead.
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	10. Fake Couple

This was probably bad.

Correction: this was _really_ bad, because right now, Tony and Peter were stranded on a rock of a planet surrounded by a group of unfriendly, armed men and women. At first, Peter had thought they were humans—but then he saw that their ears were a little smaller, their eyes a little larger, and when they had opened their mouths, Peter had caught a glimpse of what he was pretty sure were fangs.

“Remind me to kill Thor when he gets back,” Tony muttered to Peter.

“He’ll come back soon,” Peter said, flicking his eyes up to the purpling sky. “He probably just got distracted.”

“Oh, just _distracted_ —”

“What brings you two travelers to our home?” the lead of the pack—a woman with a particularly threatening set of fangs—hissed. “Do you not understand that we cannot grant anyone passage for now?”

Peter blinked. _Passage?_

“This is the _off season_ ,” the leader said, emphasizing the last part with some great annoyance. “We’re not taking any more clients right now—didn’t you see the advertisements?”

Peter glanced over at Tony. Tony lifted both of his eyebrows.

“No,” Tony said slowly, turning back to the leader. “We didn’t see the…advertisements.”

“Well, you _should_ have,” the leader grumbled, taking a step back with arms folded over her chest. “Honestly, _people_ these days. Does the whole solar system expect us to be responsible for _everyone’s_ honeymoon?” The woman grunted and, looking back at Tony and Peter, said with some distaste, “Well, what would businessmen like you know? Always greedy, always trying to overwork us.”

She huffed, and throwing her hair back, she said, “So I suppose I should be _glad_ that you didn’t see the advertisements—we can boil you alive now for breaking our rules.”

And just like that, the atmosphere changed again, and both Peter and Tony jumped back as everyone started forward.

“Peter, get behind—”

“Wait!” Peter shouted, grabbing Tony’s hand. “We’re not businessmen! We’re…” He swallowed, squeezing Tony’s hand tightly. _Play along,_ he thought. “We’re engaged!”

Everyone stopped in their tracks.

Peter didn’t dare look at Tony as he continued, his heart pounding against his chest, “We’re really sorry for coming during the off season, but we heard so many great things about your…um…services!” Working up some more nerve, Peter let go of Tony’s hand and instead wrapped his arm around Tony’s waist, tugging him close. To Peter’s relief, Tony played along quickly, his own arm winding around Peter’s waist.

“It was really all my idea,” Peter said sheepishly, looking up at Tony and smiling. He found Tony smiling back—a somewhat exasperated, somewhat nervous smile, but for a second, Peter almost forgot what he was saying, because Tony’s eyes were gentle and warm and shining—

 _Wow, he’s really good at this,_ Peter thought, dazed.

But then he found his voice. “He _said_ we shouldn’t bother you nice folks, but…”

Peter turned back around to the men and women in front of him. “We’ve been waiting for _so long_ , and I was just _really_ excited.”

The leader narrowed her eyes. “Really?” she asked doubtfully, but Peter could tell that she was growing a little more relaxed.

“ _Really_ ,” Peter said, suddenly aware that Tony had wrapped his other arm around Peter’s front—a careful, protective gesture, he knew—but to the men and women, it looked like Tony was just dragging Peter in for an embrace. Peter felt Tony’s chin resting on his shoulder a moment later, felt Tony’s light breath against his cheek.

“ _Really_ ,” Peter repeated, trying really, really hard not to imagine where Tony’s lips were. He could probably turn around and catch Tony by the lips right now, and Peter briefly wondered if that would be overdoing it—

“But we understand if this is just an inconvenience,” Tony said, his first words to the pack in front of them. His breath tickled Peter’s cheek. “We would hate to—”

“No, no,” the leader said quickly. “If you two are seeking out something special for your honeymoon, then we can certainly give you two…a tour. At least. A brief tour.”

Peter glanced over at Tony, lifting his eyebrows. This wasn’t exactly what—

But Tony smiled, resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder again. “That sounds perfect,” he said.

A few minutes later, Peter found himself walking in between great, gleaming ships that he realized was what these people were responsible for: ships to carry honeymooners from destination to destination. All the while, Tony hung around him, arms wrapped around Peter’s waist, head resting against Peter’s shoulder.

And having Tony this close to him was intoxicating—Peter’s head spun from feeling Tony’s warm around him for so long, from breathing Tony in for so long…and when Peter suddenly turned and brushed his lips against Tony’s temple, right where his hair came to a stop, he found that Tony didn’t so much as stir.

For the moment, they were playing a lovesick couple—and Peter found that it was too easy for him to forget that they really _were_ stranded on a planet and still waiting for Thor to pick them up. At one point, the leader, who had warmed up to them considerably, started asking Tony and Peter how they met, and what their preferences for the honeymoon were—

“Anywhere he wants to go,” Tony said, and he smiled so warmly at Peter that he thought he was going to kiss him right there. “I would follow him anywhere.”

“Not if I don’t follow you first,” Peter said, finding that he meant it. So stupidly, ridiculously meant it, and he found himself unable to contain his own smile, and he wondered again if he would be laying on the disguise too thick if he just ducked his head, found Tony’s lips—

“You’re lucky to have each other then,” the leader commented, her own smile playing on her lips. “Now, over here, we have…”

Eventually, Tony lifted his head from Peter’s shoulder. At first, Peter was disappointed—he wanted more of Tony, he wanted that warmth to come back, but then Tony pressed a hand against Peter’s side, guided Peter to Tony’s shoulder instead.

“Your turn,” Tony whispered, running a hand through Peter’s hair. “I’ll take care of things from here.”

“I’m—”

“You’re exhausted,” Tony said, and to the pack, he probably looked like a fiancé just looking out for his future spouse’s well-being, but the little wrinkle in between Tony’s brows reminded Peter of the reality they were in.

Peter managed a nod, and when the leader and the rest of the pack turned around to look at them, Peter buried his face in Tony’s chest, his shoulder: a tired fiancé seeking refuge. Peter felt Tony’s hand run through his hair again, linger at the back of his neck.

Peter wanted Tony to do that again—he _wanted_ —

He just _wanted_ , period.

But then there was a flash of lightning, a boom of thunder, and then—

“Stark, Parker!” Thor’s familiar voice boomed from behind Peter. “There you two are—I’ve been looking all over for you!”

There was some more shuffling from behind Peter, and when he lifted his head, he saw that the pack had startled backwards, their eyes practically popping out of their heads as the god waded amongst them. Thor only glanced at them, and then he looked at Tony and Peter, his brows furrowed together. “What are you two—”

“Thor,” Tony said quickly. “Right on time. Peter and I were just…looking for ships for the…honeymoon.”

Thor blinked. “The honeymoon?” he repeated. And then, his face clearing, he clapped his hands together. “Of course—the honeymoon. Excellent, when will the wedding be again?”

And then they were all discussing some imaginary wedding: a wedding in which apparently May and the rest of the Avengers were to be invited, and Tony was apparently exasperated because Peter had refused to show him what he was going to be wearing, and they were apparently all very excited and still looking for venues because Tony and Peter wanted to have something just right, thank you very much—

Eventually, the tour resumed, and Thor, to his credit, kept up the disguise. (“You know, I have a friend of mine who can make sure that the rings will always fit—”)

And stupidly, selfishly, Peter was sad when the tour came to an end.

“We hope to see you soon,” the leader said, her eyes now full-on glittering as Tony, Peter, and Thor got ready to leave. “Congratulations again.”

“Thank you,” Peter managed, finding Tony’s hand. He squeezed it, looked up at Tony again. “We can’t wait.”

And Tony smiled, and Peter felt something in him die.

And then there was a blinding flash of light, and Peter found himself standing with Tony and Thor in the middle of Central Park, his hand still wrapped around Tony’s.

They both looked down at their hands.

They let go quickly.

“Well,” Thor said. “ _That_ was interesting. A funny people, that pack was—as for the wedding—”

Peter blinked. He could feel Tony’s similar confusion, but they didn’t dare look at each other.

“There’s no wedding, Thor,” Tony said at last. “That was just a cover-up to get them from boiling us alive.”

“You mean to tell me…” Thor stared at Tony and Peter, frowning.

“A cover-up,” Peter repeated quickly. “You know. They thought we were business people at first, so I said that Tony and I were engaged—they didn’t seem to mind that, so…”

“So you lied to keep yourselves alive,” Thor said slowly. “I see. How clever,” he said, but he was still frowning.

For a moment, they all stood in silence.

“Clever,” Thor repeated. “An excellent ruse. And an excellent story to tell future generations, don’t you think?”

“No,” Tony and Peter said in unison. They looked at each other again, slid their eyes away.

“Ah,” Thor said after some time. “I see. So…I shouldn’t tell this to the others at all?”

Peter snuck a sidelong glance at Tony.

And this time, when Tony looked at Peter, they didn’t look away. Not right away, at least.

“No,” Peter heard himself say. “We’ll just…” He forced himself to look at Thor, because he didn’t want to know what Tony looked like when he said, “Pretend this never happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> I am also on [tumblr](https://charonsdescent.tumblr.com/) if you would ever like to scream some more about starker with me!


	11. Cramped Spaces

As far as hiding spots went, Tony figured there could be worse places. He wasn’t in a garbage chute or in a meat locker or anything nasty like that, but…still. This supply closet was _cramped_ , and it was too dark for Tony to tell where to and where _not_ to put his hands.

Tony shifted against Peter as gingerly as he could. “Sorry,” he whispered. His voice sounded tinny against the metal walls of the supply closet, and he could hear Peter and his own breaths echoing around them, but that couldn’t be helped. Tony was fairly certain no one on the outside could hear them anyways. Not unless that someone actually _stopped_ in front of the closet and stuck their ear real close.

Tony hoped he hadn’t jinxed anything just by thinking that.

“It’s okay,” Peter whispered back. “You didn’t hit anything.”

“Great,” Tony replied. “Just…let me know if I do.”

“I will,” Peter said. Tony felt a different shift against him, felt the brush of Peter’s curls at his cheek. A huff of breath, and then Peter asked, “When do you think we’ll be able to get out?”

“Probably not too long from now,” Tony replied, craning his head out to look through the skits of the supply closet. He could see the hallway behind, the fluorescent lights shining for a linoleum floor. No one walked through the hall. Tony couldn’t hear anything either, no footsteps or voices of anything. And given that Natasha or Steve hadn’t said anything through Tony or Peter’s earpieces, Tony guessed that they were still in the clear.

“Hanging in there?” Tony asked, just barely managing to tilt his head down to the ghostly outline of Peter’s face.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his voice slightly muffled. “I love being stuck in a cramped space.”

Tony would have laughed if he had the breathing room. So he just managed a huff, looked back up at the slits in the supply closet. “At least your sense of humor’s working.”

“I learned from the best,” came Peter’s response. He shifted against Tony, his hair brushing up to Tony’s lips.

“Peter,” Tony said, trying to angle his head upward. “I gotta breathe, you know.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter said hastily, stopping. “Did I—”

“No,” Tony replied, finding the ceiling of the supply closet. “You’re fine. Just got hair in my mouth.”

“Oh.”

An embarrassed silence.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tony replied automatically. “You switched shampoos.”

“Oh yeah,” Peter replied. “I ran out of the other one.”

“Terrible,” Tony deadpanned.

Tony could hear the smile in Peter’s voice as he replied, “I know, a real mess.” Another pause, and then Peter said, “You…didn’t change shampoos.”

“Wonderful observation skills,” Tony replied. “Nat would be proud of you

A halfhearted laugh, and then there was another shift—this time decidedly not against Tony’s face or his neck or his chest. Nope, that was too low—now _definitely_ too low—

“Peter,” Tony said tightly. “I told you that you have to stop moving.”

An abrupt stop, and then Peter’s, “ _Oh my God—_ ”

“It’s fine—”

“I’m _so sorry_ —”

“Happens to everyone,” Tony said, and then he winced. No, that wasn’t what he wanted to say. Because not everyone would get stuck in a too-right supply closet and feel someone accidentally rub up against their crotch. “I mean, don’t worry about it.”

“I really didn’t know—”

“It’s fine,” Tony repeated. “Let’s just…try to minimize movement from here on out.”

“Sounds good,” Peter said faintly.

For a while, they could only just stand still and listen to each other’s breaths. Tony dipped his head once, his chin brushing up against Peter’s hair again, but Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you tired?” Peter whispered.

“No,” Tony whispered back.

“Okay.”

A beat of silence.

“Are you?” Tony asked.

“No,” Peter replied.

Tony nodded. Bumped his chin against Peter’s head. “Sorry—”

“It’s okay.”

Tony leaned his head back against the wall. “Remind me to kill Steve and Nat for this later,” he said. He didn’t care if Natasha and Steve could hear him through the earpiece. They were supposed to keep quiet, mostly because of some issue with interference and tracking protocols, so Tony could say all that he liked without getting some snippy response.

“It could be worse,” Peter said. He craned his head up, and under the glow of the light filtering through the slits, Tony could make out the faint smile on Peter’s face. “We could be stuck in a garbage chute. With an alien. And crushing walls.”

“No, we just have the crushing walls part,” Tony replied.

“Yeah…” Peter turned his head towards the slits, his curls tickling at Tony’s face again.

Tony let out a small huff—not laughter or annoyance this time, only frustration. “Peter,” he said.

“Sorry, sorry—”

“No, it’s not that,” Tony said. He angled his head away. “There’s an itch. Face. And I can’t get my arm out.”

Another pause, and then a quiet giggle.

“It’s annoying—”

“Okay, okay,” Peter said. “Just give me a minute. I think I can…” And then a second later, Tony felt cool fingers against his chin, his cheek. “Here?” Tony didn’t have to look to know that Peter was smiling.

“Yeah,” Tony replied. He angled his face back towards Peter, could just barely see the laughter that was threatening to spill from Peter’s lips. “Don’t give our location away, Parker.”

“I won’t,” Peter replied lightly. His thumb brushed over Tony’s cheek. “Better?”

“Better,” Tony said.

“Great.” Peter’s thumb brushed under Tony’s eye this time. A gentle, quiet movement even though Tony knew that wasn’t whether the itch was. But Tony selfishly, stupidly didn’t want to mention that part just yet. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to catch more of Peter’s hand. He heard Peter’s quiet breaths, heard the slight uptick in them.

But Peter didn’t pull his hand away, and Tony didn’t pull his face back either.

Peter’s hand slipped down Tony’s face, hanging right by his jaw. And Tony saw Peter’s smile slowly fade under the light, saw some other strange look come over him, and Tony wondered if he looked the same—he was pretty sure he looked the same—

The sound of footsteps was what broke Tony and Peter out of their reverie—that, and Steve’s voice cracking over their earpieces: “target approaching.”

A pause, and then: “Good luck, you two.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you’re following my tumblr, you’ll know that my power/WiFi has gone out due to a storm. I’ve been able to get back power in short bursts though, and I was able to re-write this chapter on my phone, so if you see any typos, that’s why. :( 
> 
> As always, though, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	12. Suiting Up

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

Peter spun around, even though he already knew that Tony was the one at the door. Tony, who _was_ already dressed in black slacks, a black jacket. A waistcoat, which Peter tried not to notice even though the first time he had seen Tony in a waistcoat, Peter had wanted to bury his head in an ice bucket from how warm his face got.

 _Don’t,_ Peter thought furiously to himself. _Not now_.

Tony lifted his eyebrow at him, and for a twisted, heartrending second, Peter wondered if Tony could actually hear him. But then Peter decided that was stupid, and he must _really_ be losing it now, but then again, he was nervous. Press conferences were supposed to make people nervous. “We’ve got ten minutes,” Tony said. He glanced at his watch. “Nine and a half.”

“I know, I know,” Peter said, running his hands through his hair. He walked to the closet’s open doors, stopped short at the array of jackets and pants and shirts. He turned back around at the sound of Tony walking towards him. “There’s just a lot.”

“Of course it’s a lot,” Tony replied. He reached past Peter, grabbed a jacket from its hanger. He held it up to Peter, tilted his head to the side. “Are you nervous?”

Peter managed a weak smile. “What gave it away?”

“The missed calls, the fact that you nearly threw up at breakfast, _this_ …”

Peter winced. “You noticed that?”

“The near throwing up?” Tony asked casually, pushing the jacket back into the closet. He tugged out another one—dark grey—and held it up for Peter. “’Course I did.” He looked at the jacket, then at Peter and shook his head, sticking the jacket back in the closet.

“You don’t have to head out there, you know,” Tony said casually, but Peter had had enough conversations with Tony to catch the underlying message there. “It’s a big decision, going public.”

“I know,” Peter said. He leaned back against the frame of the closet door, watching Tony tug out a shirt instead. “But I’m still doing it.”

Tony shot him a sidelong glance.

“I _am_ ,” Peter said.

“I know,” Tony replied. He held up the shirt for Peter to see—an off-white. Peter shook his head, and Tony nodded, shoving the shirt back into the closet. “But it’s not too late if you don’t want to. If you want to plan things out.”

“ _You_ didn’t plan things out,” Peter pointed out. “When you went public.”

A corner of Tony’s lips twitched, and he turned to look at Peter. “True,” he said. “But you’re supposed to be smart.”

A small thrill ran up Peter as that twitch of the lip turned into a full smirk. Peter ducked his head, blindly grabbed at a shirt. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “if I was _actually_ smart, then I probably would have made better life choices.”

“Like?” Tony asked.

 _Like_ _liking the right person_ —

“Like choosing clothes last night instead of nine and a half minutes before the press conference,” Peter replied. He paused, looking at the shirt he was holding. Grey. “How much time do we have left?”

“Seven and a half minutes.”

“Great,” Peter muttered. He tugged out the shirt, decided that it was good enough. He couldn’t exactly be picky with seven and a half minutes left. He glanced at Tony questioningly, who gave him a little nod of approval. “Great,” Peter repeated. “One down.”

“Two down,” Tony said, holding up a pair of dark slacks.

“Thanks,” Peter said, taking the pants. He stuck his thumb back. “I’ll just…change.” He paused. “Time?”

“Don’t worry about—just change.”

Peter nodded. He headed out of the closet, ducked into the bathroom. He tried not to think too much of the fact that Tony was still waiting outside. Peter changed as quickly as he could, folded his other clothes and tucked it under his arm.

He walked back out to find Tony holding up a dark jacket. “Last piece,” he said. He held out his hand, nodding at Peter’s folded clothes. “Let’s trade.”

“Thanks,” Peter repeated, taking the jacket. He felt Tony’s fingers brush against his briefly, decided not to linger on that. Peter swung the jacket around his shoulders—it was surprisingly lighter than Peter had expected, and when he looked down at himself, Peter decided that _well, at least I won’t look like an idiot_.

Peter glanced back up at Tony, who was tossing Peter’s clothes on the bed. “Great,” he said. “Let’s go—”

“Slow down, Spider-Man,” Tony said, holding up a hand. Peter stopped, and Tony smirked again. Then he leaned forward, his hand reaching for the back of Peter’s neck. Peter froze, wondering if his face was as red as it felt as Tony’s hand brushed up against—no, not Peter’s neck, but Peter’s collar.

But Peter could still feel Tony’s warmth, and he wondered if Tony would notice if Peter turned himself just the slightest, just enough to catch Tony’s hand on actual skin.

“There we go,” Tony said, straightening out the fabric. He leaned over to Peter’s other side, did the same. He flicked his eyes over to Peter, looked away. “Now you look less like you threw this outfit together seven and a half minutes before the press conference.”

Tony settled back, tugged at Peter’s jacket. Straightening any last-second wrinkles, Peter realized. Not tugging him forward. Even though Peter wanted to be tugged forward. “There we go,” Tony repeated. He looked at Peter. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, his voice coming out too quiet. Too soft. _Back up back up back up_ —

He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Tony replied, dropping his hands from Peter’s jacket. He took a step back, tilted his head at Peter.

Peter swallowed. “Am I good now?”

Tony lifted his eyes back up to meet Peter’s own.

One beat passed—two, three.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “You’re good.” He cleared his throat, gestured behind them. “The rest of the world awaits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	13. Training

Tony knew that it was a bad idea to let Peter spar with him, but Clint had goaded Peter into it, and Peter had given Tony that shy smile he couldn’t ever bring himself to say _no_ to. And Tony had _tried_ to say no—he really had, at first played it off as “I wouldn’t wanna break something” to “ _you_ better not break something” to “this isn’t even really your _style_ ”—

But none of that protesting had worked in the end, and now Tony was facing Peter, who was positioning himself at the other end of the ring. Tony shifted backwards, caught Peter’s eyes. “Ready?”

Peter grinned. His hair had fallen a little past his forehead, just barely brushing against his eyebrows. Peter raised his hands, already curled inwards into fists. “Are you?”

Not quite, Tony decided. He flicked his eyes over Peter: he was wearing a sleeveless grey shirt, already exposing the muscles that had somehow developed over the course of the last few years. Tony decided he wasn’t ready.

But he grinned back. “Better not hold back,” he said.

And then they were circling around each other, one foot carefully being placed behind the other as they dared the other to move first. Tony saw Clint moving around the ring from the corner of his eye, saw him whip out his phone. Tony jabbed a finger in his direction. “No recording.”

“What, scared?” Clint asked. “I’ll need proof when Peter beats your ass.”

“You wanna take his place instead?” Tony asked.

“No, I’m good.”

Tony turned back to Peter, who was still smiling. He hadn’t made any moves even while Tony was talking to Clint—of course, playing fair. Tony said as much, and Peter only shrugged. “Figured I should have your attention,” he said.

 _Consider it had_ , Tony thought.

And then Peter made the first swing, a jab right for Tony’s ribcage.

Tony ducked out of the way, but Peter’s other fist was already waiting. The jab didn’t hurt—Tony somehow knew that Peter wouldn’t hurt him even if he wanted to, but still, he was caught off-guard by the swift motion of it all. “You know, when I said don’t hold back—”

“ _You_ better not,” Peter said, shifting back a little. His fists were already back near his face, a smug little grin hovering over his lips.

Tony considered Peter for another full second: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the easy swiftness of his limbs, the light dancing in his eyes. And he regretted ever letting Peter into the ring, because Peter kept looking at him with that half-smug, half-teasing smile that Tony had gotten used to and now looked to like a second nature.

“Well?” Peter asked, skirting a little around the edge of the ring.

“Since you asked,” Tony replied, and then he crossed over, managed to land a blow to Peter’s side. Peter took a half-step backwards, and then he was swinging his arm upwards, aiming for Tony’s neck—

Tony ducked away again, came back around Peter.

Peter swung around, but Tony was already waiting. He kicked at Peter’s stomach, heard the light breath escape his lips. Peter took a few steps back against the ropes, and for a moment, Tony wondered if he had kicked too hard, but then Peter was lifting his head and launching himself across the ring—

 _That’s new_ , Tony only just had time to think before hearing Peter land behind him.

Tony turned around in time to catch Peter’s oncoming fist. “That’s definitley not allowed,” he said with a small grunt. “No fancy flips.”

Peter grinned, looking down pointedly at Tony’s hand curled around Peter’s fist. “I don’t think that’s allowed either.” And then Peter swung up his leg, knocked Tony into the ropes.

Tony grunted. He wiped the sweat from his face, and blinking a little more, he found Clint still hovering near the ring, his phone still held up. Clint was beaming like an idiot behind the phone. He waved cheerfully.

“Thanks for the support, Barton,” Tony muttered, and then he swung back around.

Peter was sweating now too, his shoulders shining particularly under the fluorescent lights. He swept a hand through his damp hair, gave Tony a pointed nod. He was ready, and he was just waiting for Tony.

Tony huffed out a breath. He really, _really_ shouldn’t have let Peter join the stupid ring. Tony made a mental note to get back at Clint for this later.

But for now, Tony focused back on Peter, who was steadily advancing. Tony briefly considered his options: block whatever blow Peter was going to give him now, go for Peter’s ribcage again, uppercut—

Tony saw Peter’s blow coming, and this time, he was ready. He ducked to the side, hooked an arm around Peter’s neck and pushed them both down.

Pain splintered up Tony’s arm—that probably wasn’t a good idea—but Peter was flat on his back now, pinned right under Tony’s weight. Tony heard a shout of surprise from Clint, but more than that, Tony heard Peter’s little puff of surprised laughter.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t fair either,” Peter said, looking up at Tony. There was sweat slipping down from the side of Peter’s face, and for a bizarre second, Tony was tempted to brush it away. Tony didn’t.

“Well,” Tony said, shrugging, “mixed martial arts. It’s a thing.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and then, faster than Tony even processed, Peter was swinging himself up, and then Tony was shoved to the ground.

For a moment, Tony didn’t even know what was happening until he felt a weight pin down his wrists, felt warmth at both his sides, and when he blinked up, he found Peter hovering above him. He was breathing hard, his lips slightly parted as he steadied himself above Tony.

“Well?” Peter asked, his hands adjusting around Tony’s wrists. Tony felt Peter’s warm fingers curl over his skin, nails just lightly—just barely—digging into his skin. Tony wasn’t sure if that was on purpose. Probably an accident.

“Well what?” Tony asked at last. His voice came out in uneven breaths. He was panting a little too, caught off-guard and off-wind and off-everything.

Peter shifted a little above Tony, and he felt the heat at his sides again—Peter’s knees, Tony realized. “Well,” he said, and he leaned forward, that small smile appearing again. Tony could see the beads of sweat under Peter’s eyes, see the sweat rolling down the side of his face. If Tony craned his head, he could catch it with his own mouth.

Tony swallowed.

“Peter,” he started. Warned.

But then Peter released Tony’s wrists, hoisted himself off Tony. “I can play dirty too, you know,” Peter said. He reached across the ropes, swept a towel past the back of his neck. He cast Tony a backwards glance. “Thanks for the round.”

And then he jumped down from the ring.

Tony sat up slowly, still feeling the heat of Peter’s hands wrapped around his wrists. And a heat elsewhere, too.

“ _So_ …”

Tony’s head snapped up to find Clint shoving his phone in his pocket. Tony’s heart plunged. “Were you—”

“Finger slipped,” Clint said, looking at the ceiling. “Somehow, I accidentally deleted that recording. Sucks, because he totally beat your ass.” Clint looked back at Tony, an odd mixture of amusement and incredulity in his eyes. “ _I can play dirty, too_?”

“ _Don’t_ —” Tony groaned, pushing his hands up to his face. “Barton, I swear—”

“And here I was, actually thinking Nat was just pulling my leg—”

“What’s _that_ supposed to—”

“But never mind,” Clint said. He tossed Tony a towel. “You wanna take a shower, big man? Looks like you might need one.”

Tony didn’t bother with a response. He dropped his face into the towel instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	14. Workshopping

Peter couldn’t remember the last time they had gotten out of the workshop—but his shoulders were stiff, and his lower back ached, and he was fairly certain his hands weren’t supposed to be that red, but he wasn’t tired. And considering that no one had come down to drag Peter or Tony out, Peter figured that they were still in the clear.

Peter glanced sideways at Tony. He was bent over a piece of armor, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Peter figured that he wouldn’t even notice if someone rushed into the workshop right now. Once, Peter had walked into the workshop, and Tony hadn’t even turned around until Peter skipped through some songs on the working playlist. The only comment Tony had made then was _come on, I was listening to that_ , but besides that, there hadn’t been any other complaints. Just working and throwing tools or swiping computer screens at each other in a moment of confusion or exasperation with a certain problem.

Peter pushed himself away from his workbench— _his_ workbench, the one that was his without saying because that was just where Peter always worked, right beside Tony—and slipped around to Tony’s side. He didn’t have to say anything: he just sat with his elbows on the workbench and watched as Tony worked.

“Don’t tell me you’re bored already,” Tony said now, throwing Peter a sidelong glance.

“Never,” Peter said. He let his head rest on an outstretched arm, watching the sparks of the armor. “Just needed to take a break.”

“Mmhm,” Tony said, turning back around to his project. After a few beats, he said, “If you need fresh air…”

“There’s plenty of air in here,” Peter replied. He looked at Tony. “Unless you want me to go—”

“Not what I meant,” Tony said. He extended a hand. “Pass the—”

Peter didn’t even need to ask what Tony was looking for. He just picked up a tool and handed it over, and without even looking, Tony was getting back to work. And they stayed like that for another few minutes: Tony, handling the piece of armor he was working on, and Peter, passing the tools back and forth. Setting them in their proper places before getting up, circling around to Tony’s other side.

“What’s this update for?” Peter asked.

“Not an update,” Tony replied, leaning back away from the armor for a second. He tapped at the plate, looked over at Peter. “Taking it apart. One of the older models.”

“One of the older models?” Peter asked. He looked down at the armor, frowned. “What for?”

“Repurposing,” Tony said. He lifted his shoulders. “Greener, more interesting.”

Peter leaned against the workbench on his elbows. He watched another shower of sparks fly from the armor, and then he asked, “So what are you repurposing it for?”

“That’s a secret.”

“A _secret?_ ”

“Is there an echo in here?”

Peter snorted, leaned towards the armor. He tapped at the plate, right where Tony’s hand had been just a few moments ago. “I’ll figure it out eventually,” he said. “It’s not like I’m the only other one here _all the time_ or anything.” He looked at Tony, smiled.

Tony only rolled his eyes. “You’re not the _only_ one who comes into the workshop,” he said. “Pepper comes in here sometimes—”

“To tell you to shut off the music—”

“Rhodey, too—”

“To remind you to get some sun—”

“Bruce—”

“Because he left his glasses in here.” Peter hopped onto the workbench, ignoring the little indignant sound Tony made. “Point is,” Peter said, leaning over the armor between Tony and himself, “I’m the only other who comes into the workshop. So I’ll figure it out eventually.”

A corner of Tony’s lips twitched. He set down his tools, craned his neck back so that he was looking at Peter. “Really.”

“Really,” Peter replied, mirroring Tony’s smirk. He settled an arm over the armor, letting his fingers graze over the other side of the workbench. If he leaned a little farther, he could probably grab Tony’s wrist and drag him forward. “I’m betting two hours, one day tops that I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m betting a day and a half.”

“Four hours.”

“ _Four_ hours—feeling ambitious, are we, Mr. Parker?”

 _Mr. Parker_ —that was new.

Peter decided that he liked it.

He leaned forward. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Mr. Stark.”

A shiver ran up Peter’s spine then—at how Tony’s eyes dipped from Peter’s eyes down to his lips. And Peter’s other hand—the one that hadn’t dropped around the armor, the one now clinging to the edge of the workbench, steepled around, tightened its grip as he let his eyes shamelessly dip down the planes of Tony’s face.

Before he could lose all his nerves, Peter reached forward a little bit—his fingers just barely brushed against Tony’s wrist. He heard a sharp breath, but Peter wasn’t sure if that was from Tony or himself.

He felt Tony’s wrist twitch under his touch, felt Tony’s hand slowly, slowly turn up, felt Tony’s fingers wrap around his wrist in response.

Peter’s heart beat fast. Had Tony done that on purpose? Or was it just to keep Peter from falling off the workbench—

He didn’t know. Realized he didn’t really want to know, because if he didn’t know, then he couldn’t be blamed for slipping closer, closer enough for him to make out the length of Tony’s lashes and notice the faintest of cuts by his bottom lip from some long-ago fight.

“Peter—” Tony’s voice was hoarse, and another shiver ran up Peter’s spine because _this was it, this was it, don’t stop now_ —

And then the door banged open, and Peter and Tony sprang away from each other as Rhodey strolled inside.

“Fresh air and sunlight for both of you, _now_ ,” Rhodey said. “God, this place stinks, did you two know that?”

Peter couldn’t make up a response—and Tony, for the first time, didn’t seem to have a response either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


	15. Almost Dying (Again)

“We’ll find him. Tony—we’ll—”

Tony didn’t hear the rest of what Rhodey was saying, not as he scrambled up to his feet and reached the edge of the cliff. There were a few shouts behind him, and Tony felt a hand wrap around his wrist, but he was pushing himself farther, up until his steps pushed some pebbles flying off the cliff. He stared at the grey before him: the mist, the still clearing smoke from the fire a few minutes ago.

Natasha was helping Clint up, Bruce dragging Thor and Steve out of the rubble. They were battered and bruised, their faces all streaked with blood and ash and dirt, and Tony was sure he didn’t look any better, but he didn’t care because there were people missing, and one of those people were Peter.

Tony looked down into the mist. Just a little while ago, they had all been ducking past cannon fire from some weapons cartel—something that was meant to be simple, but then there had been a blast, the crumbling of boulders, and then Tony remembered looking to the cliff edge to find Peter falling off the edge—

And Tony hadn’t been able to get to them on time.

They had fallen.

Peter had just been—

“Where do you think you’re going?” Natasha’s voice was gravelly, probably clogged with all the dirt and dust of the blast.

“Take a wild guess,” Tony replied. He looked down at the edge of the cliff again. He couldn’t _see_ anything—

They had to be—

But if they fall from this height—

If _Peter_ fell from this height—

 _God, no_ —

Peter wasn’t even supposed to come. He hadn’t even been wearing his suit. He had just _snuck_ on board, the idiot, just because he _wanted to come_ , just to watch over the jet, but then he had followed anyways—

“Tony—”

But whatever the others were going to say, Tony didn’t catch. “Just be ready,” was all he said, and then he was running off the edge and falling, falling, falling as FRIDAY warned him of the suit’s capacity, but that didn’t matter. Tony felt the suit close around his hands, his arms, shoulders, and with a blast, he sped his descent to the ground.

The mist broke and gave way to grey cliff side and the grey ground below. And the faster Tony descended, the faster his heart pounded in his chest. He suddenly saw Peter’s body crumpled on the ground, his eyes unseeing and hand outstretched, and Tony nearly stopped right there.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said, forcing his voice steady. “Any sign of him?”

“No, boss,” came FRIDAY’s prompt response. “But judging by the trajectory of his fall…”

Tony swallowed. He lowered himself down, down to the ground until he could see the tops of the trees. Autumn had only just started coming around to this part of the world: red and orange and brown leaves that were still clinging to the branches before they would fall. Tony had looked at Peter when they were flying above in the jet. Peter had been smiling down at view, and Tony had been smiling at him until Peter turned his head, and Tony had pretended to be interested in the trees too. He was supposed to be mad at Peter. _Supposed to,_ because when Peter popped up from the back of the jet with halfhearted apologies on his lips, Tony was ready to turn the jet around to drop Peter back home because _what do you mean, you just tagged along_ and _why don’t you at least have your suit_ and _do you know how dangerous this is_ —

But Peter had given him a sheepish grin and swore that he would _stay at the jet_ —

That smile floated before Tony’s eyes now, and he found himself pressing faster, faster to the ground.

And then he made out the soil, and he came to a short stop because there wasn’t any sign of Peter—no sign of him or his smile or anything, but then Tony saw the blood staining a tree trunk, and Tony saw the multiple pairs of footsteps going deeper into the forest, and he felt something cold settle in his stomach.

Tony didn’t need to ask FRIDAY to do an analysis of the blood. He just knew.

He knew, and he was flying through the trees a heartbeat later, following the footsteps and freezing at each smeared blood stain against the tree trunks, and then the ground. A whole trail of blood sloppily smeared across the dirt, as though someone had been dragged.

 _Dragged_.

Tony clenched his jaw. He sped through the trees, watched as the smears of blood on the ground grow brighter in color as he made his way along. Closer. He was getting closer now.

And then he heard the voices.

“Hurry it up, we can’t just—”

“He’s being _difficult_ —”

“If he’s being difficult, then—” Tony made out three figures in the distance, their forms lit up by their body heat in his viewing screen. Three forms, and then a fourth lying on the ground. He watched as one of the standing figures lifted a foot, and then—

Tony didn’t think. He just let the bullets fly. 

He heard rather than saw the people fall to the ground. Cries of pain, dull thuds to the ground, and then a cold silence as Tony came to a short stop in front of the person lying on the ground—

“Hey,” Peter mumbled. His mask was retracted, revealing the blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth and the bruise forming on his cheek. But Peter smiled anyways, that stupid smile that always left Tony’s chest feeling too tight.

“Peter,” Tony dropped down to his knees. Looked down at Peter’s arm. Blood—lots of it. “Peter—” He retracted his own mask so that he could actually _see_ Peter’s face. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Peter said. He coughed once, and Tony saw the shine of blood on his lips. “ _Uh_ …” Peter swallowed painfully. “That’s not good.”

“No,” Tony replied. “That’s not.” He moved forward, pushed a hand under Peter’s back. Peter inhaled sharply, his head lolling back. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Peter replied. “You’re—” He froze, and for a moment, Tony wondered if maybe the pain was just too bad, but then Peter suddenly surged up and dragged down Tony’s head, and Tony heard something too loud, too loud, and his head was ringing, and then he saw one of the men—he hadn’t died yet, why, how—still lifting a gun, and then Tony heard an exhalation of breath that sounded too heavy and wet—

Tony turned back around in time to see what little color there was left in Peter’s face drain away.

And then Tony looked down to see the blood spreading across Peter’s stomach.

“Tony—” Peter’s voice was a stuttered half-breath, and then he was grabbing at Tony’s arm, but not Tony’s arm, because Tony was still wearing the suit—and then Peter was slipping, his face white and the blood red and Tony feeling cold because—

Tony didn’t care if the rocket was overkill. He let them fly and didn’t look when he heard the other man’s dying breath.

Because Peter was—

“Tony?”

“Right here—Peter, eyes open— _Peter_ —”

Peter smiled.

“ _Don’t_ — _Peter_ —”

A shaky hand lifted up to Tony’s face. Tony felt the wet on his cheek, sweat mingling with Peter’s blood.

“I’m okay.” Peter’s voice was small.

Tony looked down at Peter. His eyes were growing dull, his face and his lips bloodless but still smiling.

“Well, I’m not,” Tony replied. “So don’t even _think_ about dying on me now.”

And gathering Peter carefully in his arms—carefully, carefully, carefully—Tony shot up into the air and headed for the jet.

\--

Tony wasn’t surprised to find the others already waiting at the jet. He figured Rhodey would have flown them all back anyways, and they didn’t say anything, not when Tony came stumbling in with Peter. “Bruce—you have to—”

“Already on it—”

And then there was a flurry of hands and red blood and white sheets, and Tony retracted his suit and watched as Bruce worked around Peter. He heard someone say something behind him—might have been Rhodey or Natasha, he couldn’t be sure. But when he looked away, he found that the jet was already back up in the air, and Tony couldn’t remember if they had decided who was flying them back. Might have been Steve. Might have been Clint.

Tony turned his attention back on Peter and waited.

\--

Peter woke up to absolute darkness, and for a second, he didn’t know where he was.

But then he saw the faint glow of the monitors next to him, and then he saw Tony under that light: Tony, the side of his face resting on a curled fist and his eyes closed, but Tony in one piece and at Peter’s side. Peter noticed the wrinkle in between Tony’s brows, the pallor of his face even under the monitor light.

 _How long_ …

Peter shifted. He only meant to readjust himself on the bed, because his whole body felt sore, and he needed to move, but—

Peter let out a sharp hiss without meaning to, and then Tony’s head bolted up. Peter saw the panic first—that wide-eyed, glassy panic that Peter sometimes saw in flashes, but now, he could see it so clearly on Tony’s face that again, Peter couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been out.

“Peter,” Tony said at last. His voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken in a few days. “You’re—”

“I’m okay,” Peter said. He swallowed, tried to sit up. He got about halfway before pain lanced up his side, and then he heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back, felt Tony’s hands guide his back and his chest, and even despite all the pain, Peter’s heart stupidly skipped because Tony was _close_.

Peter leaned back against the propped pillow, took a moment to breathe. “Thanks,” he managed.

“Yeah, well.” Tony looked at Peter and for a moment, his lips twitched upwards, but then the smile was crumpling, and Peter knew that something was wrong.

“Tony—”

“You’re an _idiot_.” Tony pushed a hand up to his face. “ _God_. Peter—you—” He took a breath that sounded more like a shudder than anything else. Peter watched the rise and fall of Tony’s shoulders, his chest.

“Tony…” Peter reached up. He could do that much, reach up just enough to drag Tony’s hand away from his face. Tony’s fingers were warm in his. “I’m okay. Really. See?” He wasn’t sure what got ahold of his head, his hands next, but Peter pushed aside the sheets. Later, he would blame it on the fact that his head was still hazy from whatever pain medications Bruce had put him on—but now, in this moment, he could only push the sheets back and push up his shirt to reveal the bandages.

“See? No blood,” Peter said. He looked up at Tony.

And Tony only looked back down at Peter, that wrinkle still between his brows. His warm fingers curling around Peter’s.

“You were trying to save my life,” Tony said at last. “Back there—when you—”

“Well, yeah.” Peter lowered his shirt, but he kept the sheets still thrown back. “He was about to shoot you.”

And that was true. Peter had seen the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he knew that he couldn’t let whatever was about to happen _happen_ —

“When it comes to your life or mine—you’re not supposed to choose—”

“I’d choose yours.”

They both stopped.

Peter hadn’t meant to speak so quickly. And he might have been imagining things, but he could have sworn Tony’s hand curled a little tighter in his own.

“Peter—”

“I would,” he said. And later, he would _definitely_ blame this on the pain medication, but suddenly, he couldn’t keep the words from falling out. “I’d choose you over me.”

A silence.

And then, quietly: “You shouldn’t. When it comes to your life or mine—”

“Would you? Choose yourself?” Peter asked.

“No.”

“Then don’t ask me,” Peter replied.

“The situation’s different—”

“How?”

“Because it’s _you_ —”

“It’s the same for me.”

“No—” Tony sounded frustrated, his hand moving to let go of Peter’s, but stopping short. “Peter, it’s not like—it _can’t_ be—it _shouldn’t_ be—”

“Why not?” Peter asked. He reached up, found his fingers wrapping around Tony’s wrist. Felt the pulse thrumming under his touch. He looked up at Tony.

Tony looked down at him.

Peter swallowed. “Why shouldn’t it be the same?”

Tony dropped his head to the side. And for a moment, Peter couldn’t make out Tony’s expression. And Peter wondered if Tony would pull away his hand now—if they would both pull away again, because they had pulled away _so many times_ before, always like this: always with the two of them.

Tony turned back around to Peter. And finally, he said, “You know why.”

Peter tugged lightly at Tony’s wrist. “I know,” he said. “But I would still choose you.” _I’d choose us._

Another moment.

Just a moment—Peter’s fingers still curled around Tony’s wrist, Peter still feeling Tony’s pulse.

And then Tony squeezed Peter’s hand again.

And then Peter pulled at Tony’s wrist—just gently, just lightly, but Tony moved down to him like he hadn’t needed the prompting at all.

Peter met warm lips, tilted his head back to draw in more of Tony. To draw more of Tony in. He felt warm lips and warm hands: a hand cupping his cheek as Tony ducked down and slipped his mouth over Peter’s bottom lip. Tugged it open gently, but he didn’t really need to, because Peter knew he would have opened his mouth for Tony anyways.

Peter lowered his hand from Tony’s wrist to the hem of Tony’s shirt, tugged him down into the bed. Heard Tony’s little sound of protest, and then: “you’re still hurt.”

“It’s not that bad.”

A break for air, and then Tony was looking down at Peter.

“Okay, okay,” Peter said, tugging Tony down by the collar. “Just kiss me.”

Tony kissed him.

\--

Peter kissed back.

And Tony felt Peter’s lips smile against his more than once, and Tony smiled back.

\--

Tony kissed Peter, and Peter kissed Tony.

\--

So they couldn’t do much more—not with Peter’s stomach still healing, but there were other things that left them panting into each other’s mouths. Hands getting tangled in each other’s, Peter digging his face into Tony’s neck. Whispering each other’s name in the darkness with only the glow of the monitor to keep them company.

Tony traced his hand over the bandages wrapped around Peter’s stomach.

“I’d choose you,” Tony said after Peter had thrown the sheets over themselves.

Peter looked at Tony. And then he brought up their hands—because they were still holding hands at this point—and brushed his lips right over Tony’s knuckles.

“I’d choose us,” Peter whispered.

\--

“Peter?”

“Mm?” Peter was half-awake. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but it was still dark in the room, so he guessed he hadn’t been asleep for long. He could still feel Tony’s fingers tangled in his. Feel Tony’s breaths.

“I’d choose us too.”

\--

They were found in the morning by the others.

The others stopped short, quickly backed out of medbay, careful not to wake Tony and Peter. (Tony had wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder, Peter had the side of his face buried in the crook between Tony’s neck and shoulder.)

The others only exchanged a knowing look amongst themselves, all of them recalling different memories of this frustrating pair.

 _Fucking finally_ , they thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, coments/kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the lovely support over the last few weeks! Not going to lie, this was kind of an impulse-written story for me, and I'm just so glad that you guys were here for the ride. Thank you for sticking with all the frustrating scenarios of these idiots just pining and angsting over each other for nearly fourteen chapters--I know, I was tempted to just go "oh, let me just make them kiss already--" But thank you for bearing with me! Love you all 3000. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I just want these two idiots to almost kiss and drive themselves insane from wanting. :)))) 
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/subscriptions are greatly appreciated!


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